The Distant Temple

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2026-08-19 22:09:56 -

You dream of teeth. Not the white, perfect porcelain of advertisements, but the yellowed, chipped remnants of your own jaw. They fall into your mouth, one by one, soft as wet clay. You try to bite. The gum yields. There is no bone. You wake with the taste of iron on your tongue. The air in the room is stale, thick with the smell of old paper and antiseptic. It is a smell that has become part of...

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